THE PROPHET QUEEN
Chapter 4
“Great
Tree, carry our prayers to the Sky Realm!”
The
Sacred Tree guarded the passes to the wilderness. Its miraculous branches
radiated in every direction to form a green universe. Today the worshippers had
come from coastal towns and tribal pasturelands to celebrate at the shrine of
Qutsalyev, the Sacred Tree Place, on the spring festival of Ulugh Kun.
They
wore their most colorful embroidered tunics and headscarfs, and bedecked
themselves with heavy jewelry that made a wonderful jingling when they walked.
Some
of them, like Leya’s clan, worshipped the One God but venerated the tamga
spirits of river and mountain, Wolf Guardian and White Bird Spirit. Others knew
only the old ways and looked on the Tree itself as divine. And all had come to
celebrate with dancing, feasting and as much drink as they could hold.
“Blessed
is the Tree that connects the worlds.” The priest Tabib Yarligh called out in
a mighty voice and struck his great skin drum. “From the bright Sky Realm to
the Midworld to the underworld, where Erlikh lord of the darkness dwells.”
He
wore the traditional priestly regalia—the robe of white fur, the headdress of
antlers and a large mirror disc around his neck. Leya’s grandmother, the qam
Almalik, stood next to him in her deerskin tunic hung with animal bones and
feathers
“Sky
Father Tengri,” The priest chanted, “Earth Mother Umay.” The Tabib’s
kinsmen dragged a bleating lamb over to him and slit its throat. The Tabib bowed
deeply to the four directions and poured the blood out over the base of the
Great Tree. “Let our pasturage be plentiful and the springs always flow!"
Qam
Almalik stood forward and held up a bowl of the fermented mare’s milk called khoumiss,
and poured the white liquid atop the red. Others came now with offerings of flowers and fruits. And when Leya’s
turn came, she brought a belt which Bilga’s father had brought as a betrothal
gift and laid it with the other offerings.
Great
Tree Spirit, she prayed, save me from a bad marriage.
Bilga,
her betrothed, sat at the back of the gathering, making eyes at Filiz, his
dancing-girl sweetheart. If only Yakob had come, she found herself
thinking. But she already suspected that Yakob would call this a gathering of heathens.
That
day the celebrants roasted several lambs in a great firepit and everyone feasted
until their bellies could take no more. The men gathered for horse races and
wrestling, and the priest and the shaman engaged in a storytelling duel.
“Sky
Father Tengri and Earth Mother Umay joined in holy union,” the priest sang.
“They created a world, covered with mighty trees. But Earth Mother was jealous
and didn’t want to share. She gave Sky Father the eastern steppes—and cursed
them so that trees could not grow.”
Grandmother took a swallow of khoumiss.
“No, no, revered Tabib, you have it wrong. Listen:” and she sang in her
high, nasal chant: “Sky Father was jealous and wanted to rule it all. He threw
a curse down to blight the earth, but Earth Mother threw it back to his abode on
Kara-Kaia, the Mountain of the East. And the steppes became a barren place. Not
enough rain for trees to grow. Only grass, only grass.”
The
listeners grinned, thinking about the quarrels in their own families.
The tabib made a show of
ignoring the old woman. “And so
they divided the world,” he smoothly picked up the tale, “but the gaz,
wanderers of the steppes, cried out to the great God of the Sky. ‘Great Tengri,
have mercy, our people starve.’ So Sky Father Tengri had mercy on them, and
created the horse for their sustenance and strength.” The tabib held up a little silver horse to illustrate his tale for the
children. “He said ‘now go and ride--raid those selfish farming tribes who
live on Umay’s bounty, because they have enjoyed the fruit and given you
nothing.’ And from that day to this, there was constant warfare between the gaz
and the settled farm-folk.”
“And
between men and women,” someone added, and everyone laughed.
The
sun went down and the bonfires blazed high. Men and women formed into long
serpentine lines, and danced while the musicians played snaky melodies and the
hills shook with the throbbing of drums. Celebrants
consumed wine and khoumiss at a
prodigious rate. Couples went off to lie together in the high grasses.
“What’s the matter, Leya, you’re not enjoying yourself.”
Grandmother came over and sat beside her.
Leya squinted at the old woman, who seemed to be downing her fourth
or fifth mug of brew. “I’m too old for children’s tales,” she said,
“and too young to go off in the grass—like my sweet betrothed over
there and that cute little filly of his!”
Qam Almalik burst out laughing. “Ah. My poor Leya. That’s the
way men are. You’ll get used to it.”
“What’s
so funny? I suppose this betrothal was your idea? You and the Tabib are great
friends. I saw you drinking together earlier.”
“He doesn’t appear interested in me,
either. Didn’t you see him back there with her?
Doesn’t my happiness matter at all?”
“Happiness?” Grandmother stared as if the word was foreign to her.
“We aren’t born to be happy, but to perform the duties which are
ordained for us. My duty, Leya, is to keep the old wisdom alive.” She turned
to face Leya and put her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “You see, when some
of our clan took service with King Bulan, they followed him into the faith of
Abraham. They sought wisdom in scrolls and books--and forgot their ancestral
traditions I came from a line of shamans who have handed down our gifts since
the time of the Great Wandering. I have no intention of giving up this wisdom
and peering into a book instead of reading the signs of the Great One all around
us.” Her eyes took on a frightening intensity. “I aim to preserve our old
knowledge in any way that I can. You understand me?”
Leya couldn’t think of a reply. “I…I don’t know.”
“Well, maybe it’s time you learned. Come with me.”
Grandmother stood up.
“Where are we going?”
“Someplace I should have taken you a long time ago.”
Grandmother fetched her basket and a clay lamp to light their path.
And she picked her
way past campfires, sleeping children and couples who had had a bit too much to
drink. Leya had to hurry to keep up with her.
At
the edge of the gathering, they nearly tripped over a couple lying naked and
entwined. Leya looked down, and by the light of many fires, she recognized Bilga
and Filiz. Her lip curled with disgust.
Finally
they left the celebrants behind and set out across the knee-high grass beyond.
“Grandmother?” Leya called out. “Won’t you tell me where we’re
going?”
Grandmother
faced her with a mysterious smile. “I’m going to teach you something of your
inheritance.”
“My what?“
“You know what I’m talking about. Your father
showed no trace of the qam’s gifts,
but perhaps the sight has been passed on to you. Tonight we’re going to speak
to the Ancestors and you’re going to seek their counsel.”
Grandmother stopped in
front of a gnarled willow and took a clay jug from her basket. “Here, girl,
drink this down.”
“What is it?” Leya
sniffed the bitter liquid, grimacing.
“It’s spirit-brew, made from mushrooms and herbs. It will help
you to still your fears and travel the Sky Path.”
Leya wanted to refuse, but
Grandmother’s compelling stare overcame her will and she gulped the bitter
liquid. She had barely downed the last swallow, when a floaty feeling stole over
her. When she tried to walk, she became so dizzy she had to grasp onto
Grandmother’s arm for support. Every
sound and sensation intensified. The sigh of wind, and the soft chirp of insects
in the grass, became physical sensations on her skin.
“Now. Climb with me.” Grandmother took Leya’s arm. They
walked up a gentle ridge and down another.
But they seemed to be walking much farther. Leya lost track of her feet. She
could not tell where the world ended and dreams began.
“Grandmother, what’s happening?”
Qam Almalik
stopped at the crest of a hill. The rising moon’s light illuminated her face.
“Leya. Do you remember what we did when Yakob was sick?”
“We…he went away somewhere. We
brought him back.”
“Yes. His spirit had drifted onto to the Sky Path, where souls go
after death.” Grandmother held her two palms one on top of the other.
“As these two hands are next to each other, so the Sky Realm is next to
our world.”
“Yes,” Leya murmured, for now she could feel the presence of
this realm around her.
“Now Leya, we believe in One God, the great Sky Father Tengri
whom the Jews call Adonai, but there
are many other beings—Ancestors, totems, those we once called gods and
goddesses. Some are helpers and friends; some are enemies. The Sky Realm is the
world where they dwell. This is where a qam
must go to seek wisdom and power.”
Leya clutched her grandmother’s arm to avoid floating away.
“It is not easy to
learn to tap this power.” Grandmother put her hands on Leya’s shoulder.
“Often the wisdom comes only through a great ordeal. When I was your age, a
snake bit me. I nearly died. I journeyed far on the Sky Path and was lucky to
meet spirit guardians who guided me back. See
this?” She bared her arm, which held the deep impressions of a snake’s fang.
“A qam often receives his or her
gift only after coming close to death, and returns with a scar to mark the
passage.”
“Yes,” Leya murmured, her head spinning with confusion. Father
wanted her to breed horses, and now Grandmother wanted her to be a shaman. What
else would be asked of her, in the name of duty
and clan?
They reached the top of the ridge.
Beyond, the land sloped down before them into a great bowl-shaped valley. Low
earthworks enclosed a series of burial mounds arranged in a spiral form. In the
center, lit by a full moon, Leya could see a perfectly round hill shaped like a
woman’s breast.
Grandmother
faced her with a mysterious smile. “This is the place of the Kurgans—the
burial grounds of the Ancestors.”
Leya stopped in her tracks. “The Kurgans…! But
Grandmother…they’re full of ghosts.” Everyone had heard the tales of the
elaborate ancient funerals—the slain warriors, the sacrificed horses and
brides.
“If you’re old enough to defy your father,” said qam
Almalik, “you’re old enough to face the spirits. Come now.” The old
shaman’s grip was surprisingly strong as she pulled Leya forward.
Two tall staffs, topped with age-whitened horse skulls, guarded the entrance. Without hesitation, Grandmother stood beneath the empty eye sockets of these ancient spirit-beasts and raised her arms. “O Ancestors, we come to pay our respects and ask for your counsel!”
Leya wished she could run. She would
rather watch Bilga and Filiz couple all night long, than to enter an assembly of
hungry ghosts. She could sense them
now, crowding around to greet the visitors who stepped
through the gate.
"These are the resting places of our great heroes,” said qam
Almalik. “They lie buried beneath these kurgans with their weapons and
precious ornaments and their horses, saddled up and ready to bear them up to the
heavenly realm. And sometimes their wives and slaves were buried with them
too.”
And there stood the
grieving ghost-tribes. Gold finery sparkled around the dead warriors’ necks.
Proud horses neighed and tossed their heads. A knife-wielding tabib
waited to send them on their final journey, bearing the warrior heroes to the
Sky.
Leya’s skin prickled.
“Grandmother, let’s go back—“
“Shh. Where’s the
courage of the Pecheneg-slayer?” The tiny old woman wouldn’t let go of
Leya’s arm. With no trace of fear she continued down a path lined with white
stones, straight into the burial ground.
On either side of them, mourning ghost-women wailed and keened, some of
them decked out as princesses to accompany their heroes on the final journey.
Leya wanted to put her hands over her ears.
Qam Almalik gestured toward a tall, grass-covered
mound with its stone-lined crawlway at the bottom. "This is the resting
place of Khan Ilterish, the great warrior of the Darial pass who died with his
ten thousand, standing against the jihad. Great
Khan, we offer you our greeting.” The shaman took out a jug of khoumiss
and poured out an offering to the great warrior. “Grant us your courage!”
“And here is buried Great Khan Asprukh, grandson of Attila…" As Grandmother
named the ancestors, their shapes shimmered in the still air. So many Ancestors!
The blood-spattered, the weary, the defiant. The slant-eyed Turkut
tribesmen who had come from the east in search of pastureland. The red-haired
Saka and Sarmati who had always lived here on the mist-shrouded shores. They
clashed in battle, they met in love. And they buried their dead.
The lonely wind of the steppes
transformed into the keening funeral songs, the screams
of terrified horses as their throats were slit, the weeping of the doomed wives.
Leya clutched her grandmother's arm.
At each mound, Grandmother left an offering of khoumiss. At
last she reached the central kurgan. “And here sleeps the greatest ancestor of
all: the warrior priestess Ishi Galdun.”
A form shimmered above the rounded hill: a tall, broad shouldered
woman. She held a sword in one hand, and in the other a khoumiss beater:
sacred implement of the Mare Goddess.
“It’s no wonder you’re so headstrong. You carry
her blood,” said Grandmother with a twitch of her lips. “They say that when
the invaders came from Ellasz to enslave the Kimmeri, she and her women held
them back. The enemy came through that valley over there, and the defenders
trapped them, and this is where Ishi Galdun sacrificed her life for the tribe.
And they say that one day she will awaken, and defend her people once more.”
A chill of awe passed
over Leya, raising goose bumps over her skin.
In front of the central
kurgan, Grandmother took out a bundle wrapped in silk. “Now, girl. We came
here for guidance. Let us read the bones.”
She unwrapped the
bundle and took out its contents: a handful of small bones—sheep knuckles and
shins, most likely. Humming under
her breath, she laid out the square of silk and held up the bones. “Grant us
guidance,” she beseeched her invisible guardians, and let the bones fall.
The two longest bones
fell across each other, with the others in no pattern Leya could discern.
“What does it mean?”
“Hmmm.” Grandmother
studied the bones. Silence stretched out, broken only by the hiss of the wind
stirring the grasses. Leya began to
shiver. “The Branching Path,” said Grandmother at last.
“What does that
mean?”
Grandmother hesitated
and then handed Leya another object from her basket: a small round mirror.
“You had best look for yourself.”
Leya
reached for the object and her fear warred with curiosity. It’s only a
mirror, she reassured herself. The polished bronze surface reflected lamp
and moonlight…no, it began to shimmer like still water, and she could see
beneath its surface into another world…
Someone looked out at
her. The outlines became clearer: a bold woman’s face, covered with a pattern
of tattoo scars. She wore a tall golden headdress decorated with mirrors and
pearls. My
headstrong daughter…heir of the warrior spirit, Ishi
Galdun greeted her.
Behold your paths!
Leya glimpsed indistinct shapes, heard
distant sounds. A ship’s prow…a
fortress wall. The images dissolved and others took shape. A yurt devoured by
fire. A horde of invading warriors. A string of camels across a desert…a domed
palace of marble. The thunder of a
cavalry charge…the screams of dying men.
Listen! You stand at a branching of your
life, said the ancient priestess. Take care, lest your willfulness
be your death. You will receive great power, and be called on to make great
sacrifices. You can refuse this
destiny…or you can take my spear and my crown as your own!
The spirit of Ishi Galdun took off her
majestic golden headdress and held it out toward Leya.
“No!” Leya drew back. The gift of a
ghost could only mean suffering and death. She dropped the mirror and tried to
run, but her feet wouldn’t work. She tripped and fell, down…down…into the
dark.
When she opened her eyes, pearly dawn lit the horizon and
silhouetted her grandmother’s profile. Behind them, the kurgans were nothing
but silent, grass-covered mounds.
“What happened?” She rubbed her eyes. “D-did I fall
asleep?”
Already
the visions she had seen were quickly fading, like dreams upon waking.
“You became lost on the Sky Path,
child. I guided you back.”
“Did you see the visions? What do they
mean?”
Grandmother stared at the girl out of slitted eyes.
“Leya, it is always difficult to see the future, but one thing I’m sure of: you’re
destined for a life of trouble if you continue on your path of willfulness.”
Leya hid
her fear beneath a sarcastic tone. “So everything will be all right if I obey
you and Father, and marry that donkey Bilga?”
Qam Almalik only gave a shrug. “We’d
better head back now.” She reached to help Leya up and took the young girl’s
arm, steadying her.
As they headed back toward the Sacred Tree, the sun rose over the
horizon in a blaze of glory, turning the grasses to shining gold. Its rays lit
the branches of the Great Tree in a fiery glow. Leya could see the life force
that coursed through the tree, linking the worlds from the underworld to the
highest realm of the sky.
Leya, a voice called out from the Tree’s pulsing center. I am the
Presence of the Highest One. Call on me, and I will strengthen you!
She gripped her grandmother’s arm. “The Tree spoke to me,”
she whispered.
But when she looked
back, the luminescence had gone from the branches. The Tree was just a tree, its
leaves rustling in the wind.
***
“Come on, we don’t have all day.” Father tried to push his
way through the crowded market place, impatient to finish his business.
Soon the nomad clan would pack up their yurts and head back out to
the summer pastures where their flocks could fatten on the lush grasses. Today
they had to purchase supplies for the summer grazing season: oil, flour,
beans…and arrowheads. Many arrowheads.
As Leya guided the donkey through the crowds, she spotted Bilga
standing at a wine merchant’s booth. He looked over at her, but gave no sign
of recognition. My future husband, she
thought without joy.
First
there would be a betrothal announcement and a great feast in the nomads’
encampment. Then the clans would separate, but Leya would remain betrothed for a
year. In the autumn the clans would meet and there would be a huge wedding,
which would make Father and Mother very happy. Leya would wear elaborate jewelry
and headgear hung with silver coins, and there would probably be the traditional
combats and horse races, and then she would move into the yurt of Bilga’s
family. After that…Bilga would probably pay no more attention to her than he
did now. But she’d be a very wealthy woman with her own herd of fine horses.
She had to admit that that didn’t sound so bad. If that was what the Holy One
had ordained, she supposed she could get used to it. Bilga
can screw a sheep for all I care.
She thought about the vision she had seen at the kurgans last week. The details were blurred now, like a dream. You stand at a great branching of your life, the spirit had said. On one side…a husband. Perhaps a child. And on the other side…what?? A burning fortress? A gold helmet belonging to an ancestor long dead?
And the dreams of fire and destruction. Did some danger threaten this town? Yet everyone went about their business, oblivious. What if she was to scream a warning to all of them?
“Look, Leya,” said cousin Kushan. “There’s Yakob.” He
pointed. There came the Greek lad, carrying a great load of blankets.
A woman in a kerchief called out orders to him. Leya recognized Sarai,
the wool merchant’s daughter. “Yakob!” her cousin called out, waving.
“Come say goodbye. We’re leaving!”
“Shut up!” Leya
pulled him back. “You’re noisier than a yapping puppy.”
She might as well forget about Yakob. Let him have his fat goose of
a wife. Who cares? Yakob
and I aren’t the same kind anyway. Father
had said so.
A
sudden horn-blast interrupted her thoughts.
“People of Karachai,” a herald cried. “Make way for the Tarkhan
Kiligh! The Tarkhan, officer of the King, wishes to address you!”
Tarkhan
Kiligh and his two guards rode into the marketplace. They carried official banners: the Wolf totem of the royal
Ashina dynasty, and a six-pointed red star on a blue field--King Joseph’s
emblem.
The people quickly left
off their business and assembled to hear this officer, who had recruited quite a
few of their sons into the King’s army. "By the Holy One," one woman
whispered to another. "I hope he hasn't come to tell me my son is
dead."
Leya thought about her brother at the fortress of Sarkel, and
twisted a fringe of blanket between her fingers.
Tudun Yoshaya, the headman of Karachai, bowed and greeted the
Tarkhan. “Selamlakh! Hail to the Tarkhan, emissary of the King."
“Shalom! Hail to the
loyal Tudun Arshak.” The Tarkhan now removed his helmet and faced the
populace. “People of Karachai, don’t be afraid. Today I haven’t come to
ask for any more soldiers--or report any deaths.”
Sighs of relief came from the many people who had relatives in the
King’s army.
“Nevertheless, the news from the frontier isn’t good.” The
Tarkhan began to pace in front of the villagers. “There have been raids and
incidents with the Rus—we have seen them and their Slav subject armies massing
along the Dnieper, and so King Joseph and his counselors deem it wise to
strengthen our positions. Troops from all over are being moved to the western
defense lines. And so I have come to offer an opportunity to anyone who is
willing to serve our kings and our people.”
Leya noticed that Yakob was standing up very straight, his eyes
wide, listening with his whole being.
“King Joseph has
sent out a call to craftsmen of every kind, to come to the weapon shops in
Sarkel. There’s a great army to be outfitted. We seek weapon smiths,
fletchers, leatherworkers and anyone willing to learn these trades. Whatever
your age or station, it doesn’t matter, you’ll be housed and paid with
silver coin. Who will step forward?”
The people remained silent. Few people could leave their families
to go work in a strange town.
“I will,” a voice called out. “I will, sir Tarkhan!”
People’s heads turned to stare at the volunteer who stepped forward: Yakob ben Zacharias.
You
stand at a branching. On a sudden impulse, Leya followed him. “Me too!”
“Leya! Get back here,” her father snapped. “You’re not
going anywhere!”
“Yes I am,” she shouted back. “I wish to serve
the King, as my brother Bulan does.” Exhilaration made her lightheaded.
Bashtu sher Kimmer hesitated, then turned to the Greek lad. “And
you, Yakob… your father won’t allow it either. Have you gone mad?”
“No. My father will allow,” Yakob said in his halting Khazarian.
“I wish to do…whatever able… for Blessed Country.” And one might think,
looking at his exalted expression, that he was talking about the heavenly realm
itself.
"Me too." Leya folded her arms. “I’m
going to serve our kings.” And get away
from Bilga—and be with Yakob.
This was her big chance!
The spirits had smiled on her.
Father glared at her. “No you’re not. I forbid
it! You…” he looked from Leya to the Tarkhan to the crowd. At last he turned
away, defeated, for a king’s authority overrode even a father’s parental
claim. “By the Blue
Wolf,” he muttered, “why was I cursed with the most goat-headed daughter in
the entire kingdom of Khazaria!”